by R. C. Martin
“It’s delicious. Thank you. I’m horrible in the kitchen, so my homemade meals come from a box.”
“No one ever taught you how to cook?”
“My mom tried,” she says with a shrug. “I guess, at the time, I just wasn’t all that interested. Eventually, she gave up. Harper knows a thing or two, though. Where did you get your skills?”
“My mother. She insisted that her boys couldn’t leave the house without being able to feed themselves properly.”
She giggles, her face lighting up with the sound. “Smart woman.”
“She is,” I say, reaching for my wine.
“Did she have anything to do with all of this?” She waves her fork as she looks around my living space. “I mean, your penchant for design?”
I can’t help the small smile that plays at my lips as I watch her eyes—bright with wonder and admiration. The face she made when I brought her upstairs and she caught her first glimpse of my space, it stirred something inside of me—something a lot higher than my dick. I’m fully aware that I’m good at what I do. I know the work I put into my home and the value behind my design. But to see her appreciate it—it makes her worthy, worthy to be in my personal space. Most women don’t get invited up here. In fact, no woman, other than Marta and Aunt Eddalyn, has seen much more than my bedroom and the front door. It surprises me how much I enjoy having Teddy here.
“No,” I finally answer when her eyes settle on mine. “I guess you could say I was born with a designer’s eye, encouraged by my Aunt Eddalyn and my education.”
“It’s very beautiful,” she says shyly. “Will you tell me about it? I mean, what did it look like when you bought it?”
Over the next half an hour, we talk while we eat. The longer she sits, the more comfortable she becomes, and I’m glad to see her begin to relax in my company. When I ask her what her place looks like, the laugh that bubbles out of her is both glorious and contagious.
“It’s certainly nothing like this. It’s a small apartment—so small, in fact, that it could fit in this room.” She shrugs before she rearranges herself, bringing her left leg up as she bends her knee and rests her wrists around her ankle. I watch as my shorts slide down her thigh, and I’m immediately distracted by the bit of ink I see on her skin.
“Miss Fitzpatrick, you surprise me.”
“I do? Why?”
“What’s this?” I ask, reaching over to trace my finger across the little bit of tattoo that has been exposed.
“Shit!” She jumps—from my touch, or from my awareness of her ink, I’m not sure. Nevertheless, she’s quick to lower her leg as she tugs on the shorts.
“I’m not allowed to see?” I murmur, lifting an eyebrow at her inquisitively.
“Um.” She draws in a deep breath, sweeping her hair behind her ears—her nervous tell. “I just—I don’t usually show people.”
“Ah, but now I know it’s there. I think you should show me—your white knight for the evening.”
I’m well aware that my choice of words is laughable. I’m far from any woman’s white knight, but I did rescue the damsel tonight. Furthermore, my curiosity has been piqued, and I’ll say just about anything to have my way.
She studies me for a moment, her pretty brown eyes searching mine—for what, I don’t know. Just when I think she’s about to give in, she speaks.
“How about I’ll show you mine if you show me yours.”
I smirk at her as I reach for the remainder of my wine. “I would say yes, but I don’t have any tattoos.”
“No. Well, I mean, that’s not what I meant,” she stutters.
Fuck—I love the way she rambles when she’s anxious, I think to myself as I finish my drink. I then look at her, my unspoken request for clarification expressed with a beckoning wave of my hand.
“My tattoo, it comes with a story. I’ll tell you my story if you’ll tell me yours.”
“I have many stories, Teddy.”
“I’m sure you do,” she says with a small smile. “But I want to know one in particular.”
“Go on.”
“I want you to tell me about the last woman you loved.” I furrow my brow at her. What she’s requesting is not at all what I was expecting. She continues before I can say a word in reply. “I know we don’t really know each other. I know that’s a really personal story, but so is my tattoo. If you want to see it, you’ll have to pay up.”
I can tell by the determined look on her face that she won’t budge on her terms—but I try, anyway. “What makes you think I’ve ever been in love?”
A knowing smile pulls at her lips, making me want to kiss her.
“Because,” she begins to say, pulling my attention away from her tempting mouth. “No one decides that what they seek from a woman is everything but love unless they’ve been in love. And, no offense, but you can be a bit of an asshole—and assholes aren’t born, they’re made. That’s a lesson I learned a long time ago. So, are you going to tell me about her?”
We stare at each other as I consider what she’s said. One phrase in particular plays on repeat in my mind—assholes aren’t born, they’re made. No one has ever said that to me before. I’ve certainly been called an asshole more times than I can remember, but not with such compassion and intrigue as just now. A part of me wonders about the validity of her truth. I have been in love before. Once. And it is also true that I’ve felt the pain of betrayal, that I’ve experienced the heartache of loss, and that my experience has convinced me that love is not something worth seeking—but if it hadn’t of been for Aubrey, what kind of man would I be now?
I discard the question. Seeking such answers is a fool’s mission. Besides, what I want lies beneath those gym shorts. Knowing that I can get what I’m after with the telling of a story that happened a decade ago, I decide to play along. It’s not a memory I share often—or ever—but I won’t deny fate. It’s given me the advantage tonight, and I’m not going to kill my chances with Teddy now.
“Fine. You have yourself a deal. But if I’m going to tell you my story, we’ll both need more wine.” I stand, taking her glass along with mine before I reach for the remainder of the bottle. “Come on.” I head toward the living room, set our glasses on the coffee table, and refill them both. She joins me just as I sit, occupying the space to my left. Facing me, she curls both legs against her chest as she leans her side against the couch, careful to make sure her thighs stay covered. “Where shall I start?” I ask.
“How’d you meet?”
“Christ—from the very beginning?”
She giggles and nods; and like a pussy, I acquiesce.
“I went to college in Chicago. I met Aubrey my junior year. She was a professor in one of my classes.”
“Whoa—you fell in love with an older woman?” she interrupts, lifting her eyebrows in surprise.
My lips twitch as I fight a smile. “At the time, I was twenty and she was twenty-seven. Less than the nine years that separate us.”
“True,” she concedes. “What did she look like?”
I narrow my eyes at her playfully. “Who is telling this story?”
“Sorry,” she whispers with a grin. “Continue.”
“She was—beautiful. Intelligent. Poised. To this day, I don’t know where I got the balls to initiate a relationship with her, but it was obvious that our attraction to one another was mutual. She wouldn’t sleep with me until I turned twenty-one. My birthday is in December, which meant the end of a semester, and the end of our teacher/student relationship.
“Spring came and we were almost inseparable. I couldn’t afford to stay in the city over the summer, so I came back home—back to Denver. When I returned fall semester, she was engaged to be married.”
“What?”
Teddy speaks the word so softly, I’m almost certain it wasn’t meant to be heard. Nevertheless, in an attempt to ease her worry that this still bothers me in any way, I reach over and rest my hand on top of her knee, stroking my thumb back and forth a
cross her smooth skin.
“Needless to say, I was surprised. Shocked, actually. And angry. Really angry. We’d kept in touch over the summer. It was more frequent during the first few weeks than the last few weeks, but we were busy. I was busy. I was interning at Eddalyn’s and I didn’t think I needed to worry about the status of my relationship. She told me she loved me. Like a fool, I believed her.
“She lied. Or—you know what—maybe she didn’t lie. Not about her feelings, anyway. Who the fuck knows? What I do know is, she insisted that she met an older guy, that they hit it off, and that she was in love with him, too. She complained about being confused, and yet, they were married by Christmas. New Years Day, she was fucking me.
“She told me it had been a mistake, that she was going to leave him. I was fucking played—my emotions making me stupid. Turns out, she was just a married whore who left me when her husband found out about us. It was a shit-show, fucked up on both sides.
“But watching her leave, experiencing that sort of betrayal and heartache, it taught me that love is a choice. It’s a choice that someone has to make over and over, every day. To expect someone to make the decision to choose you, without fail, without doubt, every single day—it’s just foolish. People change.
“So, now you know why I’m not looking for love—why I seek pleasure first and foremost. That is a choice that does not bear the same consequences.”
“But…” She starts and then she stops, her eyes focused on my hand on top of her knee, but her mind clearly focused elsewhere. “Don’t you remember the good parts? Did you not like being in love?”
I shake my head, turning my lips down in a frown. “I don’t see how that’s relevant.”
“Huh,” she sighs, bringing her eyes up to meet mine.
As she stares at me, I can tell that she thinks that she’s sad for me. I certainly don’t need her pity—hers or anyone else’s. I stand behind my choices. I’m man enough to own who I am, and I wont’ apologize for it.
Ready to change the direction of this conversation, I slip my fingers underneath the hem of my shorts and begin to slowly skim my palm down the length of her thigh.
“A deal’s a deal, Teddy. I’ve shown you mine. Now it’s time for you to show me yours.”
As his hand slips down the length of my thigh, I feel like one of my lungs has given out, my breaths coming in little, shallow inhalations. His grey eyes are locked with mine, almost as if he’s seeking permission to expose what I’ve hidden from him—and yet, I know that he’s not. If I told him to stop right now, I’m not certain that he would. It’s as he said—a deal’s a deal. But my lack of faith in my ability to stop him is not at all why there are no words falling from my mouth.
I don’t want him to stop.
His long fingers feel amazing against my skin. His hand is warm and smooth, his touch both gentle and decisive. It’s been so long since I’ve let anyone get this close to me, I’m not sure if it’s him I crave, or just what he’s giving me. Either way, I force myself to relax as he grips my thigh, encouraging me to uncurl my leg. When I’ve given in to his silent request, he slowly pushes up the fabric of his shorts until my lacey, garter tattoo is on full display.
He stares at it for a moment, running his thumb along the design, and I wonder what he’s thinking. My eyes are glued to his face, trying to interpret the slightest hint of movement—but he gives nothing away. Then, before I can comprehend what he’s doing, his lips are trailing kisses along my inked skin.
“What’s your story?” he murmurs, his voice deep and seductive, his lips still grazing my thigh.
I hear him speak, but I don’t respond. I can’t respond. I have absolutely no words in my head right now. It’s impossible to think with his lips on me, his breath tickling my skin.
“Teddy?” he asks, tilting his head up so that he can see my face. I barely register the satisfied smirk on his lips before a full-on grin takes its place. “I’m listening.”
“Oh,” I sigh, reaching up to sweep my hair behind my ears. I shake my head and close my eyes, willing myself to get it together. When I look back down at him, he’s still smiling at me.
Fuck…I’m in deep shit.
“Um,” I force myself to begin. “There was a time…a time in my life that I felt—damaged. My garter, it’s—it’s meant to remind me that I’m beautiful.”
He leans down and kisses it again—this time using tongue. I gasp, my heart beating wildly with excitement.
“I like it,” he says softly. “And you are.” He pauses, kissing me once more. “You are extraordinarily beautiful, Teddy.” Before I can locate my manners to thank him, he looks at me and asks, “Do you have more?” I nod, knowing my voice is completely untrustworthy at the moment. “Can I see?”
I don’t answer him at first, not entirely certain if I want to show him any more. I reach up and pinch my lip between my fingers as I consider it. Then, as if my body is sure of something that my brain is not, I extend my right leg. He arches a brow at me in question and I offer him another nod. I then watch as he pushes up the other side of his shorts, revealing my dream catcher. This time, I notice as his eyes widen in what I assume is surprise. His fingers trace each and every one of the feathers before he asks me the story behind my first tattoo.
“I used to have nightmares. Really bad ones.” They’re the only words I can get out before he starts to run his tongue around the three smaller circles. “Jude,” I breathe—not sure if I want him to stop or keep going forever and ever. Every time he touches me, I feel like I might explode, and it’s amazing.
When he pulls away, I’m equally relieved and disappointed—but then he scoops his hands underneath my knees and pulls my legs so that they are resting over his lap. He lets me go, only to cup his hand around the back of my neck, burying his fingers in my damp hair as he circles his other arm around my waist before he presses his lips to mine.
I’m limp in his arms in an instant. I can’t help it. His body is both hard and soft, wrapped around me and seated beneath me. His lips are perfect—not too dry, not too thin, just wet and warm and perfect. When he slowly runs his tongue along the seam of my closed lips, I don’t think—I just do. My mouth opens up for him, and he dives in, making me whimper. He tastes like wine, and he smells like heaven, and I have no idea how we got here, but I don’t care.
As I reach up to wrap my arms around his neck, completely lost in the most glorious kiss I’ve ever known, I feel it as my desire for him makes itself known between my legs. He pulls me closer and kisses me deeper and all I want is more. As my insides burn, I resign myself to the fact that he’s not getting these shorts back—certainly not as long as they are drenched in my arousal.
He groans as he nibbles and licks my lip, and it’s like the Fourth of July and New Year’s Eve got together to celebrate in my stomach. Then his tongue is in my mouth again. He kisses like a man who knows how to pleasure a woman, and yet he makes me feel like I’m the only woman in the entire world he wishes to pleasure. It’s overwhelming and delicious and so much more dangerous than I ever imagined it could be.
When one of his hands grazes up my side before his palm cups my breast through his t-shirt, I know now is the time to end this—but he feels so wonderful! He gives me a squeeze and I whimper—this time in complete and utter frustration as I force myself to pull away from him. He doesn’t fight me when I push him back, and we’re both short of breath as we stare into each other’s eyes.
“What happened?” he asks.
“Do you believe in God?”
He frowns at me in confusion and I scrunch my face in embarrassment, wondering what the hell happened to my mental filter.
“Excuse me?” he mutters.
“Uh—God,” I say, deciding to commit to my word vomit. After all, God is my best chance at keeping these clothes on right now, and I could use all the help I can get. “Do you believe in God?”
“I—no. I don’t know. What? Why are you asking me that?”
&nb
sp; “I believe in God. And I don’t mean to sound like—I don’t know—I just—I don’t want you to think that I’m making up excuses, but I believe that I’m worth more than sex. He taught me that. So—you should know that this—right now—it’s not going where you think it might be going. I-I-I’m not going to sleep with you.”
“Okay,” he says causally before leaning in to kiss me.
I place a hand against his chest and squint my eyes at him. “Okay? That’s all you have to say?”
“I’m an intelligent man, Teddy. I was under no illusion that tonight would be about sex.”
“But…I thought—”
“When you’re ready to have sex with me, I’ll know. Until then, I have no intention of manipulating or coercing you into my bed. Now, where were we?”
Before I have a chance to speak, his lips are on mine again. For a second, I almost get lost in his touch; but then his words take on meaning in my head and I pull away, pressing both hands against his chest as I suck in a deep breath.
“Wait,” I mutter, shaking my head clear. “What if I never want to sleep with you?”
He smirks at me, his grip around my neck tightening just enough to remind me that he’s still holding me. “I’m not worried.”
“I’m not one of those girls who sleeps around, you know? I won’t have sex with you just because you buy me flowers and cook me dinner.”
“Clearly,” he replies with a grin.
I scowl, annoyed that nothing I say seems to be chipping away at his absolute confidence that I’ll one day decide to rip off all my clothes for him.
“If you think you even have a chance at getting into my pants without dating me first, you’re wrong,” I state defiantly. “And just because I date you, that doesn’t mean I’ll sleep with you.”
“We’ll see,” he says, dipping his head to run his lips along my neck.
My eyes fall closed as he sucks, licks, and kisses his way to my bared shoulder. My mouth falls open and it takes a great deal of concentration to silence the moan that’s lodged in my throat when I feel his teeth graze my skin. “God—Judah—” I push him away again, and again he stops his advances—only this time, with annoyance swirling around in his gorgeous grey eyes.
